


First Steps

by foolscapper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disabled Sam Winchester, Gen, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, runs parallel through S1-S5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: Sam has had a messed up leg from the day he's born.Turns out, not much changes.(A mild S1-S5 AU.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	First Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this is an older work re-uploaded and cross-posted, so the writing may not be up to par with my later works! I've edited it a bit to read more smoothly and not be QUITE so terrible, though. There is some ableism in the narrative by characters (slurs and seeing said disabled character as incapable), as well as the use of the term 'handicapped' instead of 'disabled', but these are not the author's opinions or used terms. Thank you!

When Sammy was born, he had a leg that turned funny. His toes bunched and curved awkwardly, and his foot was a little 'clubbed', like Mom said, and his knee and hip twisted inward. He was weaker than he should've been, got sick a lot, and his muscles weren't very strong. But Dean didn't worry about it as much as his mom or dad did, because Sam was a happy baby, and happiness is often all that ever really matters in the end. How could they look that worried when Sam had such a big dumb grin to offer?

Everything else seemed less important.

* * *

  
It's months after mom died.  
  
The therapist has Sam sitting up against a smaller physio roll, the rubber surface a deep dark red so that chubby baby fingers contrast starkly. The woman coos to Sammy, tells him he's doing well, makes him stand on his own with feet as flat as his anatomy will let him to reach for a toy. Dean watches silently — so silently, still too quiet for his age, still a hawk next to Sam. His hand is curled on his denim-torn knee so that he doesn't reach for his brother's wavering, discomforted figure. The lady (she seems to handle Sammy well, but Dean can't always trust that, can't completely let his guard down when Sammy could fall and hit his head on something) uses words like 'congenital skeletal abnormality' and 'occupational therapy' and his dad just ends up looking tired despite her best efforts to sound optimistic.  
  
The therapist looks at Dean with a hopeful smile. "Would you like to help your brother with therapy?"  
  
Dean is even more attentive if it's possible, eyes sparkling, and nods with all the resolution of a toy soldier. With one hand anchoring against his brother's legs, he sits enraptured by Sam's determination in reaching up for a rattle.

 _Come on, Sammy, you can do it._  
  
The therapist has to stretch Sam's muscles and ligaments, give him mobility in his joints, and it seems like it hurts Sam so bad that he screams until he's red-faced. Dean nearly cries with him as he holds one of his brother's hands between his bigger ones. He whispers hoarsely, "You'll be okay, Sammy."  
  


* * *

  
John gives up on therapy.  
  
They don't have the time and money, and there's something out there that puts them all at danger. They already have enough trouble scamming hospitals with false identities and insurances; they'll surely be caught taking Sammy to therapy twice a week every week. Dean and his father work with his little brother as best they can, though — home exercise programs on old loose leaflets of paper with coffee stains in the left-hand corner, keeping a ritual of it even through John getting frustrated (dad is easy to frustrate, when it comes to Sammy, and Dean figures it's because that's how his dad shows he cares after Mom). John's face lights up more than it ever has since mom died, when Sam limps into Dean's arms. The kid is all drool and dry pasta sauce, and Dean loves the way his hair smells.  
  
He ruffles Sammy's locks and they nap together while John compiles information from old dusty books.  
  


* * *

  
"You know he can't do all the things you do — why the hell would you let him get on the roof like that?! I told you to watch out for him, Dean; I told you he's not... Christ, son. Christ. You can't let yourself get this careless again, do you understand? It could've been his life. If he'd fallen headfirst... I don't know. I don't know."  
  
Sammy broke his leg. His _good_ one. Dean won't forget who might as well have twisted it out of its socket with their bare hands.  
  


* * *

  
"I don't want to be the freak for once," Sam says fervently. He's rubbing the brace running up the side of his thigh; Sam's a bionic man, Sam's got some sweet rims — Sam's got to not let people tear him down in a shitty world like this. Dean is livid, his arms folded tensely, and he wonders if he can find the kid who gave his brother a fat lip so he can give him one, too. And _then_ some. Because there's no one more fucking cowardly, teenager or adult, who would shove over someone who takes a full minute to get back up. No matter how many fighting moves he shows Sam and no matter how often he instills the importance of strength behind weaknesses, there's the elephant in the room: even if Sam didn't have a problem with being the smaller, handicapped kid, he had a problem being a hunter (a Winchester). John wouldn't let him go on the hunts, and Dean would quietly ignore Sam's desperate glances to speak on his behalf, to explain he's more capable than the brace makes him look, and Sam — well, Sam wanted normalcy, _anyway_.  
  
Normal? None of them were normal. Only, Dean's not sure what Sam's alternative is, when all he can do is offer information from behind a cell phone.  
  
Maybe... normal is what Sammy needs.  
  


* * *

  
Sometimes the leg hurts. It has a hell of a lot of pins in it and Sam won't stop growing suddenly, so Dean's not surprised.  
  
He slides to sit down on Sam's side of the motel and smooth's out the growing teenager's hair. Sam dry-swallows some pills and Dad is out hunting witches. Dean hates every single fact surrounding these circumstances.  
  


* * *

  
Sometime during a thoughtless, stormy fight between him and his brother over the hidden college applications in Sam's duffel, a wasted Dean Winchester shoves Sam, because Sam's convinced him he can take what's dished out. And as it turns out? Sam can actually hold his own in a fistfight; can even hunt, despite John and Dean's reservations. Sam also has a fucking mouth on him. Dean can't honestly remember what Sam had said by the next morning, but he does remember ending the fight with — "You fucking cripple!"

There's no excuse and no amount of forgiveness that Dean can accept, especially not after the betrayed, hurt look Sam gives him.  
  
It's why he gives himself a black eye.

Takes his fist from the dumpster he'd punched behind the motel, and turns it inward, punching himself hard enough to see stars.   
  
A pathetic scene to envision, maybe a little dramatic, but it gets the job done. It's not like his brother'll do it for him, because the taller kid deals out punishment in wordless, watery stares. Which is honestly a million times worse than a shiner. Sam finds him hungover in the bathroom of their shitty little temp apartment the next day, limps over, and pushes a cold bag of peas to his face in silence. His face is neutral, casual, and Dean is maybe a little tiny bit drunk again, because the fight was stupid and the words he'd used linger in his head like mental ghosts. Sam says dryly, " _You're_ crippled in the head, more like."  
  


* * *

  
When Dean finds Sam in Palo Alto, he's stunned to find Sam limping around on his own - and doing a damn good job.  
  
"I've been going to therapy again," he says, and Dean feels a twinge of guilt. "It's been better. Expensive as hell, though."  
  
But the more Sam's powers develop, the less he limps, the less pain pills he swallows down. Dean wishes he could celebrate; his brother is hunting with him. At his side. His gait is steady and he can aim a fucking shotgun without worrying that the blast will knock him off his feet, down to a floor that hurts to get up from. He only wishes the freakish visions and telekinesis and bad omens weren't ruining the one good thing that's happened to Sam since he walked away from his family.  
  
Sam walks toward him in Cold Oak without so much as a quiver in his gait.  
  
Jake grinds a knife into Sam's back like he's trying to turn Sam's gift into powder, and Sam doesn't walk anymore.  
  


* * *

  
When Azazel dies, the power is sucked out of his brother's head; Sammy needs to wear a brace again.  
  
Sam figures it's a small price to pay. He's still a decent hunter. Actually, he's a damn good one.  
  
Dean's soul is a little more important, even if Dean isn't sure he agrees.

He let Sammy break his good leg before, after all. 

Among other grievous sins.

* * *

  
_'Goodbye, Sammy. I'm sorry.'_

The Hell Hounds get him. 

Sam watches helplessly.

* * *

  
Dean should've realized something was wrong when he came back and Sam was pretty much running track and field.

But fuck, he was so happy to be out of that shit-hole down below, so tormented by it all, he never stopped to think much about Sam's functionality. And now that he thinks more and more about it, now that they've kick-started the Apocalypse, Dean realizes he hasn't been doing much of anything right these days. Sam shouldn't have gotten out. Dean shouldn't have left Sam to scream and writhe in that panic room alone. He'd - he was supposed to be the kid who helped Sam's therapist, right? The one who held his hand while he was screaming in pain, crying at someone manipulating his tense flesh?

Where did that Dean go? Where did Sammy go?

(They didn't go _anywhere_ ; he's just an idiot, in retrospect.)

* * *

"So we just go back to the way we were before?"  
  
"No, because we were never that way before... Before didn't work. How do you think we got here?"  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"I wanted to feel strong. All my life - you and Dad, you called the shots, you kept me in the dark, left me behind. I wasn't your equal; I was luggage. I was the kid who couldn't do anything, and Dad knew it, and you... you never said it, but you didn't have to. All my life, I've felt like a damaged antique you guys liked too much to part with."  
  
"... Sam."  
  
"Ruby made me stronger. I could - stand on my own. I wasn't your busted up kid brother anymore. And now... we, we can't fall into that same rut. You're gonna have to let me grow up. Stand on my own, y'know? You got to trust I won't slow you down. I have to be able to trust that you trust me, Dean. I know I don't deserve it, but... it has to start somewhere."  
  


* * *

  
"I just... I don't believe," Dean says.  
  
"In what?" Sam asks.  
  
"In you," Dean punishes.

* * *

  
There's a gaping, angry wound in the earth, and it sucks up oxygen like a housefire as Sam stands front and center in front of it; Dean's vision is blurred but Sam's face is clear, his eyes wide and scared — but he's ready. _Accepting_. He's going to jump; he thinks it's what he deserves, that he's less than all of them, that he's weak and sinful and this is some fucked up penance. Now he's here at the finale, and nobody in the world even knows what he's doing for them right now; nobody but Dean, only Dean. For a moment, he envisions a small baby boy, and then pictures the six-year-old kid who helped that boy with his therapy.

Made sure Sammy never hit his head.  
  
Made sure Sam never fell down.

"It's okay. I've got him. I can do it."  
  
There's a sense of failure that crushes Dean's heart in his chest. Angry, miserable tears trickle at the corner of one blood-shot eye, the other swollen up, bashed by a fist that Sam couldn't control before. Sam nods at his kneeling brother like he's got the baton now — like he's going to run the last half mile, like Dean's done his part and this is it: this is their legacy. They'll win the medal. First place in stopping the end of the world. They never wanted Sam to do track; thought he'd be embarrassed in the end, when all the kids ran laps around him. As it turns out, Sammy could do laps around every person on this planet, and he's doing it right now.

Dean tries to get up, overtaken by the need to cushion his brother's head with his hands so that he can't hit anything on the fall down.

But his legs refuse to work. It's over. It's done.  
  
Sam smiles weakly, takes five stuttering steps toward the yawning pit, and falls with purpose.

* * *

  
"Hey, hey, Sammy, good job! You'll be walking in no time."

The limping toddler beams brighter than the sun.


End file.
